


Crossing Over with the HA List: An Onlist Challenge

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Multi-Age, Other - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2003-08-09
Packaged: 2018-03-22 21:30:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 19,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3744271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Writers on the HA list were challenged to write stories about races they normally shun like the plague, in an effort to broaden horizons. Working off a shortlist and with a 1,000 word limit, authors posted their stories over a period of two weeks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Slouching Toward Gondolin

There was a glorious screaming sound as we lurched forward for the first time – a tortured, twisted scraping as metal learned to move against metal, the friction of iron and bronze caressing each other, a song of frozen fear learning to thaw in a Balrog’s heat. It was drawn out the way a scream of climax echoes the cries of creation – like the echo of his own scream once drew the dark fires to Lammoth, when he learned for himself what it was like to be penetrated by the thirsting dark.

I checked the edge of my blade against my thumb – it felt bright and perfect and fine. I leaned it gently against the arm of the sleeping body beside me – it drew a line of dark beaded blood without waking him. I was very pleased. Soon I would be happy to know that those I allowed to encounter its edge could feel it, but I wanted to be sure the razor keenness would buy my way into the city first.

After that there was little to do but savour the flickering shadows, the scent of heat, the taste of oil on steel that rose all around me… and think about the surprise the rising sun would bring to Gondolin. Would they have cherished their watchful silence tonight if they knew that the song that greeted the morning sun would be in our tongue – the scream of battle, the screech of shock, the shriek of death. Nost-na-Lothion! Good! Let the flowers bloom on your ill-gotten graves.

Smug elves - think they have it all figured out, who they are, what they are, why. They think they invented beauty, and no one else can see it. Yet they are so blind to others they can only see beauty in themselves. They pride themselves on the way they delight in every little blade of grass – yet they look upon our dark Lord and fail to see the glow of his ferocious fire. They woke up one night and someone told them they were born for love and purpose – that the very stars were made for them – and they believe it! Well, that’s how elves are – tell them they are wonderful, the crown of creation – why would they question that. It does seems like a great way to shut them up. What do they know? They woke in the dark, and they are being kept in the dark. Ask them about their souls and where their precious fëas will end up and see if they still seem so superior.

We know where we stand – squarely on the ground. We have no promises of time or of the West. We have to take what we want now.

I don’t need some stupid story about how I came to be. I am. And if I wanted a creation, what fiction could I devise to rival my reality as I ride towards Gondolin in the belly of death, wedged in tooth by claw with – more death!! The shrieking sound of metal in motion, the taste of copper and steel like blood in the back of the throat, the waves of heat that rise off the demonspawn and their whips – the press of immense yet indifferent hate.

I ride in the crucible of my conception. My deeds are my birth, my breath. I am not a soldier, I am a weapon, razor-sharp and fearless! What sword was ever born in a finer flame? If those close minded elves can’t see the beauty of sparks flying outward from the forge – can’t see them as the stars our maker set for us… well, those who refuse to see fall into their own folly.

I felt my blood and anger rise as the belly of the metal serpent roared against the walls of their stupidity. What will protect you now from our risen loathing? The hot blood-filled air of the city felt cold as the serpent shed its skin to release our wrath. We are more than ready.

They try to tell us we were made from elves. Think on that, you puny, leaf-eared peace-seekers, when you think about beauty and purpose. You were just the raw material. You are pig-iron and we are steel. We have been remade, refined, perfected - fashioned, formed and forged for fury.

Here we come.

 

 

Notes:  
This is for Jim, who thought I could do it...

 

The other night waiting for dinner, Jim (he’s an engineer) told me that some of the dragons at the siege of Gondolin were mechanical constructs, and a host of orcs rode inside like a Trojan horse and poured out into the city. I could not stop thinking about what would make a living being ride inside a dragon with a Balrog rider. I could not get the taste of hot metal out of my mouth. And I kept thinking about orcs being made from/in mockery of the elves and wondering what elven smugness would look like if it manifested on that side… and the terrible fierce thought of orc beauty.

 

The Book of Lost Tales II p. 177:  
But now Gothmog lord of Balrogs, captain of the hosts of Melko, took counsel and gathered all his things of iron that could coil themselves around and above all obstacles before them. These he bade pile themselves before the northern gate; and behold, their great spires reached even to its threshold and thrust at the towers and bastions about it, and by reason of the exceeding heaviness of their bodies those gates fell, and great was the noise thereof: yet the most of the walls around them still stood firm. Then the engines and the catapults of the king poured darts and boulders and molten metals on those ruthless beasts, and their hollow bellies clanged beneath the buffeting, yet it availed not for they might not be broken, and the fires rolled off them. Then were the topmost opened about their middles, and an innumerable host of the Orcs, the goblins of hatred, poured therefrom into the breach; and who shall tell of the gleam of their scimitars or the flash of the broad-bladed spears with which they stabbed?

***

by fileg (powzie@gryphonsmith.com)

This story was written for the "Crossover" challenge at Henneth Annun.

 

 


	2. Spirit of a Sword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writers on the HA list were challenged to write stories about races they normally shun like the plague, in an effort to broaden horizons. Working off a shortlist and with a 1,000 word limit, authors posted their stories over a period of two weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Encyclopedia of Arda makes the following observation about the origins of the name, Narsil. Narsil is a name composed of 2 basic stems without variation or adjuncts: NAR fire, & THIL white light. It thus symbolised the chief heavenly light, as enemies of darkness, Sun (Anar) and Moon (in Q) Isil. (from The Letters of J.R.R Tolkien No 347, dated 1972.) (It does have square root signs before the Elvish, but my computer wont do them!)

It is time. I can feel your spirit calling to me as a child calls to a father, as a lover to a beloved. Long years have I waited, feeling your presence, knowing your essence, until you were ready to be dreamed into being.

I smile. We are not a race of dreamers, not as compared to Elves, or even Men. Practical, sometimes loud, even grim; that is how we are known to the world. Our eyes are turned to the richness of the earth rather than the beauty of leaf and sky. They are ephemeral, ever changing; but in the earth is constancy, and abundance. Yet we are dreamers in our own way, seeing with eyes attuned to stone and earth, the beauty in the metals which run as lifeblood through the rock. Aye, the respect and love of a Dwarf is for the spirit which is already there and our duty is to give that spirit a pathway to life.

I turn from the door of the forge, from the sunset, trying to still my excitement. I feel almost giddy, like a youngster, new to the smithy; a raw youth, still feeling the joy of his first creation’s call. Other voices have I heard, other souls have I nurtured into being. I have felt their birth pains in stinging sparks across my hands, in the ache in arms worked past my strength to end the waiting. Yet always have you been there; in my mind, your spirit dreaming, wandering in visions of your incarnation.

I take a moment to steady myself and look down at my hands. Hands made rough with years spent with hammer and anvil, honing my skill as I tempered my soul in the heat and sweat of the forge. Yet my hands are no mysterious creation. They are marked with the perfecting of my craft, with calluses and long-healed scars. “The price of inexperience,” my master said once, when I was very young. Yet I know and love each blemish, for each is testament to a creation, a beauty given life in the heat of the forge and the imagination of a Dwarf.

I am my own master now, and unlovely though these hands are, they are the means by which I live, the means by which I love. For there is no greater love than a father for his child, and those whom I create are my children, born of a melding of my body and Her searing heart.

I wait until She grows red-hot, feeding her with the bellows, stoking her until I can feel her heat on my skin. She is my wife and the mother of my children, and she is ever faithful. I have felt Her joy, the echo of mine and I feel Her now, anxious to begin, coals glowing, spilling Her light out into the falling night.

And I feel too your impatience curl through me once more, your spirit vibrant, eager to be born, pushing at the bounds of my mind.

_Peace, my child_ , I soothe.

The steel is ready on the bench. I whisper my prayer to Aulë, my plea that I may find your form and nature in the dull grey metal I now hold in my hands. Yet even this raw, unfinished metal hums with the force of creation, the anticipation of life.

She is hot enough now and with a breath I push the steel into the forge and listen. You feel Her warmth, writhing, twisting and your song becomes a tangible thing, a thing I can touch, tracing it with heart and mind. I follow your lead, singing your essence into the blade I now place on the anvil, my hammer blows a counterpoint to your voice; the ancient songs of smith craft, the magic of the Dwarves, capturing your spirit as you willingly offer it to the steel I now draw out.

The forge flares, white and red flame and in its light I see the fire of the sun and the cool light of the moon. A name now begins to weave into the song, secret, silent. It is elusive, yet.

My hammer blows change as I taper your length to create tip and tang and now the song changes rhythm as your beauty begins to be revealed. Your voice soars through my mind, a clear and vibrant note. I sing back to you, the low steadying chant of Dwarvish halls, of rock and stone, of bright gleaming metal and glittering jewels. You will be the brightest of them, my child.

I carefully edge you back into the heat, settling you on a glowing nest of coals. You murmur softly, as I watch you rest in your birthing.

What deeds will you see, I wonder? What battles? What triumphs and sorrows will shiver along your blade? In whose hand will you nestle, fitting close as to a lover’s caress. You will see death, feel it along your length, the parting of flesh, the shattering of bone. You will be the cause of it, times beyond counting. Yet you will remain pure, never forgetting the song of your forging, the spirit of your making, the soul of your maker.

Yet will you forget, I wonder, as you cleave to the hand of Man or Elf? I cannot say, until I hear your voice, quiet in the stillness of the night, _I will remember_ …..

Again, you whisper your name, but still it is too faint to hear, lost in the spiralling strands of melody. I return you once more to the heat and then place you carefully aside, leaving you to cool slowly. I move to the door where night lies quiet on Nogrod, sweat cooling on my brow, glistening in my beard. Sometimes I turn my head, watching, waiting as you settle into your form, murmuring to yourself.

And now I must seal the bond, setting edge on blade in the way of my people since the beginning, focusing my intent and will, joining it with your spirit and soul into a gleaming, blinding sharpness that will never dull or fade. You stir once more, seeking, moving against my hand and mind. And I whisper to you. _Soon, soon_ ,I murmur.

Another heating and you are fully awake now. Almost can I touch your bright spirit and my soul reaches out to the sound. I plunge you into the water to quench your fire, but it only flares higher, ever seeking.

Again, to the fire, carefully tempering. You struggle to be free, but now I must be cautious and I ask you to wait, be patient, else your life’s spark could be ended in a heartbeat, severed with the shattering of the blade.

I dare not look at you fully, not until I have finished and I bend close to my work. It will not be long now, as near as the dawn approaching in the East. You are silent, as though you also sense the time is near. Working quickly, reverently, fingers deft with practice and with love, I attach pommel, hilt and guard as you sigh in anticipation.

Then, all is still.

You lie on the bench before me, alive, yet silent once more. For a moment I am reluctant to touch you. Though I am your creator, you are more than that which I have created, more than my mind could encompass. I reach out and you arch into my hand, crooning, your silent silver voice a balm to my thundering heart.

Slowly, I move to the door. Dawn is on the horizon, its light striking sparks from the gold in hilt and pommel. You reach toward it, the fire of the sun and the silver of the moon. You are exultant now, stretching, weaving an intricate dance, ethereal, elusive and infinitely powerful. I raise the blunt hand that is curled around your hilt as your voice rises, higher, higher. You are keening, singing, soaring free of my hand and in the blinding light of the golden dawn I hear at last the name you have chosen, the name you will bear in peace and in war, the name that will be uttered alongside that of Kings.

‘…and the sword of Elendil filled Orcs and Men with fear, for it shone with the light of the sun and of the moon…’*

_Narsil_.

***

\--Erin's Daughter

* From The Silmarillion, Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age.

Author’s note: The Encyclopedia of Arda makes the following observation about the origins of the name, Narsil. ‘Narsil is a name composed of 2 basic stems without variation or adjuncts: NAR ‘fire’, & THIL ‘white light’. It thus symbolised the chief heavenly light, as enemies of darkness, Sun (Anar) and Moon (in Q) Isil. (from The Letters of J.R.R Tolkien No 347, dated 1972.) (It does have square root signs before the Elvish, but my computer won’t do them!)


	3. One Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writers on the HA list were challenged to write stories about races they normally shun like the plague, in an effort to broaden horizons. Working off a shortlist and with a 1,000 word limit, authors posted their stories over a period of two weeks.

Beautiful.

With the utmost care, he pried the mold apart and set one half down on the black volcanic ledge that served as his worktable. He turned the remaining half over, tapping the top gently with one hand to dislodge its content, allowing the object to fall into his open palm.

The gold circlet in his hand still glowed with heat, reflecting the copper light of molten rock that bubbled below him. The metal was still hot enough to burn the flesh of any foolish enough to touch it, even that of the Firstborn, but he was of the Maiar of Aule; he feared it not.

Annatar, the Lord of Gifts, he named himself to the Noldor of Eregion. He lived amongst them, taking on a form as fair as that of the elves. With honeyed words he played upon their ambivalence, their desire to remain in Middle-earth at odds with their desire to partake of the peace and bliss that could only be found in the West. Simpletons. The eagerness with which they took his counsel pleased him in the black crypt that was his heart. His guidance would be their undoing and they knew it not. Soon. Soon he would rip aside the veils that obscured their vision and reveal the truth, but not yet.

He walked to the end of the tongue of stone that jutted out over the lake of fire. Kneeling, he raised his hands, one set upon the other with the ring lying on the upturned palm. His eyes closed as he centered his thoughts, for now came the most difficult and delicate part of the making.

Softly he began to chant, his words unintelligible. All of his concentration, his whole being, he focused on the gold in his hands. With time and great effort, his voice grew louder, stronger, while all his other senses were tuned to the ring. Scattered images whirled and danced in his mind but they were not a distraction. He let his loathing of the Firstborn and his fear of the Men of Numenor stoke the fire of his hatred and his lust for the power to dominate them all.

He could see it now, the power of the elves subject to his will alone, and the might of Numenor broken and bent to his purpose. The dark flames in his heart leapt and roared at the image of the proud Noldor prostrate before him, worshipping Annatar above all the Valar, above Illuvatar himself. And he would not stop with the elves.

He raised the volume of his voice until the cavern rang with the words of command. Dizzy with the power that was building within him, he felt as though he would explode into a blazing conflagration.

NOW!

Annatar gasped as the power and strength flowed from him into the ring. He swayed as the ring greedily drank from him, draining him. It was too much. He had pushed himself to the brink of safety and sanity. Yet still he chanted. The Ring grew while he shrank and faded. Grimly he kept on. His breathing became labored, his vision blurred, he was almost there.

_Ash nazg durbatuluk, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatuluk, ash burzum-ishi krimpatul._

He chanted the words, over and over, as a fiery script snaked its way over the outer surface of the smooth band.

Done. His hand closed automatically over the ring as he collapsed to the rough cavern floor. It had been a difficult task and had cost him much, but it was finished.

One Ring to rule them all.

Once set on his finger, none of the other rings would be hidden from him, not the Three, the Seven or the Nine. It mattered naught that he had no physical hand in their making. By availing themselves of his lore to help create them, those who wore the rings were made vulnerable to the power and influence of the One.

Annatar struggled to his feet. Oh, how he was weary. Much of his power and a large portion of his life force had been invested in the Ring. He and it, they were one now. His power, the power of the other rings were now bound to the One. If perchance, his treasure was ever taken and, as if that were possible, destroyed, he would be reduced to an impotent shade and the other rings, along with all their works, would slowly wither.

A short bark of laughter burst from his throat. Even if the One ended up on another’s hand, it would have to be brought to where it had been forged ere it could be unmade. Impossible, of course, there was not a single mortal or immortal that was immune to the lure of the Ring. Any who tried to claim it would be corrupted, broken, or enslaved.

A wave of dizziness passed over him as his knees threatened to buckle again. He forced himself to remain erect and overworked muscles screamed in protest. He had to regain his strength first, and then he could place the One on his finger and bring the bearers of the other rings under his sway. Then they and their people would fall to his will and dominance. Finally, he would shed the insipid guise of Annatar, the wise counselor so generous with his lore. He would return to his true form and name, Sauron, Ruler over All. No. Sauron, the Dark Lord of all Middle-earth. Much better.

At the entrance to the cavern he grasped the wall quickly as his vision faded and an insistent buzz droned in his ears. It took longer this time to regain his senses. Rest, he needed rest. He gazed at the razor sharp teeth of the Ephel Duath that separated him from his prey.

“Rest easy this one last night,“ he snorted contemptuously. “Fools.”

Tomorrow, he promised himself.

Tomorrow.

_finis_

***

\--Deby


	4. Desiring Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writers on the HA list were challenged to write stories about races they normally shun like the plague, in an effort to broaden horizons. Working off a shortlist and with a 1,000 word limit, authors posted their stories over a period of two weeks.

As soon as she stepped out of her chamber she could hear them, discordant squabbling spilling out of the open parlour door into the long passage.

“Twenty pennies, I tell you!” A querulous, reedy voice.

“Twenty pennies! You’ve never seen that much in your life.”

She sighed as she began her walk, old feet still quiet despite the staff in her hand and the weight in her heart.

“A lifetime’s savings, stolen!”

“Aye, well we know who will have taken it.”

A chorus of agreement.

“Ah but do we?” A slow insinuation, “Could have been anyone, knowing where the blame would go.”

“Oh Meadda,” the young female voice dismissive, “You always see more trouble than there is.”

Reaching the door unnoticed, she paused for a moment in the darkness of the hallway. The bright chamber was filled with family members, squalling voices raised in argument.

Peace. She longed for it, sleepy afternoons and quiet evenings.

“More trouble?! Meadda raised her voice, “that’s all there’s been. Trouble. Since….” she motioned with her eyes towards a sad-faced hobbit-woman seated by the window. “And what’s been done about it, eh?”

“Nothing! That’s what!” Auld Rem, the reedy voice’s owner, a dried-up old specimen, with hands and feet too big for him. “And nothing will be, mark me. Not to her precious Sméagol.”

She had heard enough. “Quiet!” Her voice rang with authority, and she reinforced it with the heel of her staff against the flagstones.

The bickering muted to awkward shuffling as the assembled folk made way for her.

They had all come as she had asked. Well-to-do Marshwains and affluent Paddlefoots, respectful Creelers, outspoken Duckcatchers, even some scruffy Ticklers ill-at-ease near the door. Scowls marked the faces of her once-cheerful kinfolk, suspicious eyes and furtive hands replacing open smiles and warm handshakes.

Seated in her chair she looked sternly around the room, taking in the sullen and discontented looks. “You all know why I’ve brought you here.” She began harshly, without preamble. “Of late there has been no peace in this family, no content in the village and, “ she sighed, “we all know the cause.”

Assorted mumblings of agreement and general head nodding.

“Ever since the day poor Nahald was lost…,”.

“Lost!” the sad-faced hobbit raised her voice in bitterness. “You mean murdered!”

“Now, Nerka,” she admonished, “we don’t know that’s true. His body was never found.”

“There’s one who knows where he is, my poor dead boy! But you don’t want to face the truth. That your favourite, cherished grandson Trahald is a killer.”

“Aye!” Rem added, “And a thief too.”

“Spy!”

“Sneak.”

“Troublemaker.”

“Enough!” she banged her staff on the floor again, and said with quiet resignation into the following hush, “I know well enough what he is, what he has become. And I know the cause of it.”

“His precious,” sneered Nerka.

“Yes, that mysterious Thing, that he guards so carefully. Shielding it from every eye. It has wrought this change in him, though I know not how.”

“We must take it from him!”

“Yes!” Meadda’s voice resounded agreement, “Force him to give it up.”

“And become thieves ourselves,” her voice was quiet, “turn into that which we condemn?” she shook her head. “Nay, we can ask him to give it up, but we cannot force him. The choice must be his own.”

“He’ll never do it,” Nerka sniffed.

“He must be given the chance.” She nodded to two sturdy lads standing by the door. “Bring him in.”

  
  
“Stop it! You’re hurting me!” Trahald’s petulant whining was accompanied by squirming and struggling. “Let me go! I’ll tell Gra’ma!”

“Hold your peace, weasel! It’s Grandam wants to speak to you. Now get over there.” He pushed the smaller hobbit towards her.

“Gra’ma,” Trahald scurried over, rubbing his arm sulkily, “nasty boys hurt me.”

“I told them to bring you.”

“You could have asked us, we always comes to see Gra’ma. No need of horrid big hobbits.” He turned his beautiful face towards her, smiling with those great, green eyes.

She steeled her heart against them.

“I’ve called you here to ask you to do something for me,” she spoke softly, laying a gnarled hand on his thin shoulder. “Something difficult but very important.”

Suspicion twitched across his face and he edged away from her.

“What is it Gra’ma? What could poor motherless Sméagol do?”

“Trahald,” her mouth struggled to form the hard words, “I have loved you as my own, nurtured and cherished you. You took your first steps in this parlour and a place by this fire has always been yours.”

His eyes were huge in his face, bright with fear and dark with secrets.

“Now Gra’ma needs something from you.” This was it, there could be no turning back once the words were said. But maybe, just maybe, he would…. “Sméagol, I must ask you to give up your precious.”

“We knew it,” he hissed at her as he cringed away, “oh yes, knew you wanted it.”

“I don’t want it.” She spoke sternly, “I want you to cast it away, far into the river. Let it begone forever,” she smiled desperately at him, “let us be happy again.”

“No!” his screech scored her ears, “It’s mine. My birthday present, from poor lost Deagol.”

“Liar!” Nerka’s voice matched his, “Murderer! Thief!”

“No!” Trahald shrieked, “Mine! We never gives it up!”

She bowed her head, the sorrow no less heavy because it was expected.

“Then you must go.”

“Go?” a faltering squeak, “go where?”

“Away from here.” Pain made her voice harsh, “Far away, never to return.”

“Never to see Gra’ma again…”

“Unless you give up your precious.”

Tears welled in the eyes, “We can’t…..”

She could speak no further, but only nodded again to the boys.

“No,” he wailed, as they dragged him from the room, “Gra’ma! Don’t send us away. Nasty bully boys, they hurts us. Don’t send poor Smeagol away.”

The sound faded, leaving the room in stunned silence. Without speaking she hauled herself up, and leaning heavily on her staff, began the long walk back.

Only behind the closed door of her chamber, did she permit herself to weep.

***  
\--Enros  


  



	5. A Small Package

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writers on the HA list were challenged to write stories about races they normally shun like the plague, in an effort to broaden horizons. Working off a shortlist and with a 1,000 word limit, authors posted their stories over a period of two weeks.

The Hobbits had been following the Big Person for over an hour. He never knew they were there, unless perhaps he had the uneasy feeling that eyes were following him. He seemed to be looking for herbs, which was a strange thing for a Big Person to be doing near the borders of the Shire. He didn’t seem to be any threat, but it was the Bounder’s job to keep track of strange folk. There were farms and families only a short hike away. They depended on the Bounders to keep them safe. The Bounders were out on patrol because there had been reports of Goblins in the woods, though they were most likely the product of fertile imaginations.

This one was big, even for a Big Person. Tall, with dark hair and dark clothes that had seen better days. A large sword hung from his belt, and he wore tall black boots. He moved through the woods almost as quietly as a Hobbit, which was uncommon among his kind. The Hobbits only noticed him because they chanced upon him in a clearing. After a while he found what he was looking for, a small clump of Kingsfoil, a common weed, which was useful for relieving headaches according to old wives tales. He cut a large sprig with his pocketknife and then began walking through the woods at a great pace. The Hobbits were hard pressed to keep up without making any noise.

They caught up with him only because he stopped at his destination, a small clearing where another Big Person lay by a small fire, seemingly sick or injured. The Hobbits watched from the bushes as the man they had been following tore up the Kingsfoil leaves and put them in a small bowl. He then poured a few drops of liquid from a small glass bottle into the bowl and began to mash the ingredients with a spoon.

At this point, the leader of the Hobbits and his companions held a whispered debate.

“What should we do with him?” Whit asked. “You’re the leader.”

“He doesn’t look like he’s up to any mischief, and his friend appears to be badly wounded,” Toby answered. “The kindly thing to do would be to give them some help.”

“But, he’s a big person,” Gorm said.

“The other one looks to be hurt bad. We should help if we can,” Toby answered. “I’m going to go and talk to them. You spread out and cover me with your bows.”

Hobbits move so quietly that the man was startled when Toby stepped out of the brush and into the clearing. He jumped up and drew his sword. They both looked scared to death.

“Easy there”, said Toby, holding his hands out so the stranger could see he was unarmed. “I just came to see if your friend needed any help.”

The Big Person looked him up and down before he smiled and sheathed his sword saying, “A Perian, I should have expected as much this close to your land.”

“I am Tobold Hornblower, Master of these parts, and the people of this land are called Hobbits, not Perians. I may be shorter than you, but I count myself a whole person,” Toby said, somewhat indignantly. “It is my duty to patrol these woods and inquire of those I find here as to their business.”

“I beg your pardon Master Hornblower,” the man said quite sincerely. “It was not my intention to question your authority or insult your people. It is the word for your people I was taught as a lad. I will endeavor to use Hobbit in the future."

“Fair enough,” answered Toby, “What are you doing here and when will you be leaving?”

“My father and I were hunting when he was injured. We will be on our way as soon as he can travel.” The man answered.

“Whatever you were hunting must have shot back,” Toby answered, pointing to two halves of a bloody black arrow laying on the ground near the injured man.”

“You have a sharp eye. We were hunting Yrch,” the Man said.

“Yrch?” Toby questioned.

“Sorry, Goblins in the common tongue,” the man answered.

“Did you get them?” Toby asked. “We are out on patrol because there were reports of Goblins in these woods the last few days.”

“Yes, every last one, and not more than two hours ago, but not before they killed our companion, and wounded my father," the Man said.

“He looks like he needs more help than you can give him.” Toby said.

“We have learned to rely on ourselves. He’s a tough old bird and I have some skill in healing,” the man answered.

“I am not going to leave a wounded man laying in the woods when I can help. We are going to care for him, the matter is settled. In this wood, my word is law,” Toby answered and motioned with his hand to someone behind him.

In a moment, six more Hobbits appeared from the brush, bearing bows with arrows knocked.

“My boys, Tom and Will”, Toby said, nodding to two Hobbits standing together, “and Lob, Whit, Gam and Gorm. I did not catch your name.”

“My apologies sir. I am Arassuil and this is my father, Arahad. We will be grateful for any assistance you care to give. I just did not want to burden you with our troubles,” the man said. The wounded man grunted and tried to raise his head in greeting but collapsed with a pained look on his face.

The man knelt down by his father, and said, “I have to begin treating him, or he will not see another sunrise”.

Toby turned around and said, “Tom, go fetch Grandma. Tell her what has happened. Bring a few of the lads, and the stretcher too.”

“My mother will be able to help, if anyone can. She’s the one folks in South-farthing call for if there has been an injury. She knows her business,” Toby said.

The man grunted, “Thanks”, and began pressing the Kingsfoil mash into his father’s wound.

Once the wound was poulticed, Arassuil took a dried brown leaf from his shoulder bag. He rolled it up and lit the end in the fire. He held the smoldering roll of leaf near his father’s nose so he could inhale the smoke.

“What are you doing?” Tobold asked.

"This is a medicinal herb called Galenas or more commonly Westman’s Weed. The smoke eases the pain of those who are hurt."

“Interesting”. Was Toby’s only reply.

Before long Tom returned with Grandma Hornblower and four stout looking farm hands. The wounded man was placed on the stretcher and they carried him to the edge of the woods. From there he was transported by wagon to the Hornblower farmhouse.

With Grandma Hornblower’s skilled care, and a steady diet of good Hobbit food, the wounded man recovered quickly, and the two men were ready to travel in a fortnight. No one ever knew they were there except for a few Bounders, farm hands and members of the family. In the middle of the night, the two men said their good-byes and melted into the shadows.

A few months later a small parcel was found on the doorstep with Grandma Hornblower’s name on it. Inside was a bundle of dried Galenas leaf, a small sack of seeds, and instructions for cultivation written on parchment.

***

Fëadan  



	6. Goes A Courting...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writers on the HA list were challenged to write stories about races they normally shun like the plague, in an effort to broaden horizons. Working off a shortlist and with a 1,000 word limit, authors posted their stories over a period of two weeks.

He had found this vein years ago, scented the faint sheen hiding amongst the heavier coolness of the quartz it was wrapped in, and had been following it ever since. He pictured the molten metal cooling in the rivulets in which it had gathered, before Aulë’s hand gathered the earth and folded it upon itself, shaping it into the vast mountains that would secrete his own hope of creation. It had become his mate, his joy and, today, his bane.

This latest pocket of mithril had been pure, but the vein that led to it showed no sign of continuing away once more. The words of his fellow miners echoed still within the small room. “Ah, lad, the deposit had to play out eventually.” And “It was a fine, long lived, bounty. We’ll be toasting her memory for years to come.” The problem was that he still sensed her. She was being coy and it frustrated him beyond words. Had he not been a steadfast lover? Had he not whispered his devotion with each new day? Had he not bathed each gift given in his own sweat as a token of his gratitude?

And then… he laughed... a great booming laugh, a laugh that filled the small cavern and built, layer upon layer, into a base beat that was answered in the pulse of the mountain itself. His eyes teared with mirth and as the last echo of sound was absorbed again by the silence he looked at the now empty pocket with a new found respect. He walked to the wall and caressed it. “You have shown your mettle, it is only fair I show you mine. Play the coquette; it is a game we will both enjoy.” Smiling, he hefted his pick and waited for the air to carry to him a hint of where he should begin his pursuit.

***  
\-- Chris Smith

cps250@yahoo.com  
July 2003

 


	7. Declarations... Perhaps Philosophizing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writers on the HA list were challenged to write stories about races they normally shun like the plague, in an effort to broaden horizons. Working off a shortlist and with a 1,000 word limit, authors posted their stories over a period of two weeks.

My father is a smith, as are his brothers, shapers of metal. In my youth I worked the stall on market day, selling their wares. I know the value of the work, recognize the artistry not only in the skill of reforming the sinew of the earth in fire and strength, but in the fine work, the recreation of spirit in the carving and etching and molding of each item that leaves their forge.

I watched as Men and Elven folk alike would hesitate to touch the work, wary that their reflection would alter the cast. It is a sacred moment the first time a new forged piece is held in hands other than those who wrought it. In truth, the life of forged metal changes with each hand that holds it.

As a smith, father traveled. He went out into the light, seeking inspiration for the designs he worked. He occasionally hired himself out for building in the cities of Men, more often for an Elven project. As his son, I traveled with him. Briefly.

I have listened to others speak of their discomfort in our cities. They miss the sunlight, the warmth and free air, the sounds of birds and insects. They feel trapped under the weight of the rock around them; frequently fear it... as if being on top of the land would cause less harm to a body than being under it, should it ever actually collapse.

They do not see the infinite gradations in my world - perhaps it is not a lack of imagination that makes it so. Perhaps they are incapable, as I am incapable of seeing the beauty of theirs. Learning to adapt my eyesight to sunlight would bear a price; while I would be able to discern more than the mere silhouette of objects in daylight and would see more of the colors that have been described to me, I would never again behold the nuances that I do now.

My stars are the torch reflections in the mica, in the crystals, and never do I have to wait for night to behold them. My air wends its way down the chimneys, gathering to it the scents of soil and shale, bedrock and limestone distilled to a potent, full-bodied blend. My lakes are warm and mineral rich; bathing in them eases sore muscles and rejuvenates the body. My home has a stillness that promises infinite patience and the solace of permanence.

There is a peace in the silence that is lost above; I am completely exposed and find neither safety nor comfort. This is hard to admit, but I suffer from motion sickness... everything moves outside, the grass, the leaves, other living creatures, clouds; I constantly feel ill. And the smells... Ach, above ground is best left to those who were born for it.

Elves, tall and lithe as their beloved trees and masts, appear as light and open as the sky. Their strength comes from their ability to bend with the changing winds. Their blood is as sap, sweet and constantly rising toward the sun. Men are forged by their ties to one another; perhaps it is their gift of an afterlife that binds them more to each other than to the world around them. I am Dwarf. My blood is magma, my bones and muscle forged from the very rock that all life draws nourishment from. I am at home in the mountain because I am of the mountain. I was made to live here, to recognize the overwhelming beauty of the foundation of the world. And one day I shall be subsumed within it once again.

So, I returned to the life that best suited me. My family jokes with me, saying that even for a dwarf I am close-minded. In deed I do appear to be, but the reality is that I understand there are as many ways of seeing beauty in the world as there are folk in it, even appreciate and am comforted by that truth. I simply find my beauty in the rock.

If they were ever disappointed that my skill lay not with the forge but with the pick, they hid it well. There is as much an art to mining as there is to smithing and stone cutting, and it requires talent as well as skill.

Each ore, each rock, each gemstone has its own taste and scent. But, they can be subtle and tricky; it takes sensitivity and patience to track them. This is my talent. I had it long before I gained the skill. Now I work on improving my knowledge; learning which rock surrounds which ore, which gemstone. I practice the swing of my pick and the tap of my hammers and the kiss of my brushes. My fingertips now recognize weights and textures. I am a miner.

Many of my folk live in the sunlight and are happy to do so. I do not wish for you to misconstrue. It is simply that I understand the choice and made mine... made it freely, even wisely.

***  
\-- Chris Smith August 2003

cps250@yahoo.com

Written for the Crossover challenge at Henneth Annun.  



	8. Keeping the Watch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writers on the HA list were challenged to write stories about races they normally shun like the plague, in an effort to broaden horizons. Working off a shortlist and with a 1,000 word limit, authors posted their stories over a period of two weeks.

The grey trees slept and the little streams tinkled and the thickets were silent with memory. Winter still held sway and weeks would pass before the earth quickened and birds sang in the greenwood. Thus it was that two hobbits crept on the quietest of quiet feet, so not a twig or dry leaf stirred in their passing. Here on the verge of the Old Forest it was unwise to draw attention, especially given the rumors of late. Strangers had been seen abroad; Big Folk with unsavory aspect, and strange things were whispered on the road towards Bree. Thus silence and secrecy ruled the hobbits' movements as they followed the thin tang of wood smoke.

"We should not have come so far!" hissed the first hobbit. Sigismond Brockhouse was the little fellow's name, but everyone called him Bert.

His bolder comrade was Falco Boffin, who simply frowned over his shoulder. "We can't very well stop now, can we? What if someone is setting the woods afire?"

"Who ever heard of a fire in winter?"

"Who ever heard of a fire in the Old Forest at all? As bounders we must attend to any and all strangeness on our borders." With a reassuring smile, Falco added, "Come on, we're within earshot of the road, we can't get lost."

Bert sighed and nodded his assent, but firmed his grip on his small hobbit bow. Forward once more they went, and no more words were spoken.

Grey trees watched and a cold breeze sighed. The tang of smoke grew subtly stronger. Silently they crept through the sleeping wood, and then they saw it. A wee little fire, scarcely enough to warm a pot of tea, and certainly not enough to truly warm the Man crouched before it. Both hobbits froze in place then sank silently behind a blackberry thicket.

Dark-haired and grim of face the man was, his mouth drawn and his brows lowered. He was, they realized, wounded and attempting to bandage himself. A sword lay sheathed beside him and against a log tilted a bow that was nearly as long as two hobbits placed end to end. The hobbits' hearts beat quicker. What sort of outlaw or brigand might this fellow be? Would he enter the Shire? Should they warn him away?

 

Gripping their own bows warily, the hobbits scarcely breathed as they watched. Long fingers worked quickly to tie a folded length of cloth over an ugly gash in the man's forearm. The fire had been risked, they realized, to heat a tin cup of water to clean the wound. It needed stitching, flashed the thought through Falco's mind.

Soon the knot was tied and the man gingerly plucked at the bandage to assure that it would stay in place. With a soft sigh he pulled down his sleeve and drew his cloak about him. Only then did the hobbits note the glint of a silver star pinning the cloak at the man's left shoulder.

"He's a -."

The voiceless whisper stilled. Bert's eyes were round as tea cups when Falco glanced at him. The expression softened to one of worry, to which Falco shook his head. Then at a nod both hobbits drew well back into the sheltering wood.

"He's hurt!" whispered Bert, as they huddled against the knee of a drowsy oak.

"Yes, I saw that."

 

"But what if he has other hurts?"

Dear, kind-hearted Bert. Falco smiled. "You might ask yourself if he has a wound and lives, what became of the enemy who hurt him?"

Bert's mouth formed a silent O, and then he frowned. That entire line of thought was more than a little discomfiting. Perhaps it was time to retreat within their own borders.

"Come on," said Falco. "Let's have us another look. If he's really hurt, we'll try to help him."

The man still sat before his tiny fire when they returned to their hiding place, his arms draped over his knees and his face turned upwards. The grey of the winter sky seemed mirrored in his eyes and Falco thought he looked tired and possibly hungry. Frowning, he bethought himself of his own little knapsack, wherein a nice fat sandwich, a meat pie, a sweet bun, a flask of buttermilk and two apples nestled comfortably. Should he step forward and offer it to this stranger?

 

Yet before he could puzzle an answer, the man rose to his knees. He scooped up his tin cup and poured what remained of its contents hissing and sputtering over the fire. Then he made a quick business of spreading the wet embers with a stick, stirring them into the damp earth, and last sifting several handfuls of leaves meticulously over the site.

 

The man was leaving. Falco exhaled a silent sigh.

The stranger arose and with deft motions belted on his sword and slung his bow over his shoulder. In seconds there would be little sign he had ever been there, and the first rain would erase all traces.

Tall he was, as he stood and took a deep breath. Perhaps his rest had renewed him, for he no longer seemed so weary or grim. In fact, a faint smile touched the corners of his mouth.

To the bony trees and slumbering earth, the man suddenly spoke in kindly tones. "If you are there, as I think you are, your borders are still safe. But remain watchful, friends."

Then with long, easy strides he left, steps barely stirring the fallen leaves as the forest swallowed him up. Behind him, the two hobbits watched in wonder.

 

"Well, fancy that," said Bert.

 

"Yes," replied Falco. "But at least that's one strange thing that went in our favor and not against it. Come on, let's go find a proper place to eat."

It was, he thought, an odd comfort to suppose that their borders were being watched from without, as well as within. But next time he would offer to share his lunch.

 

~ FINIS ~

***  
  
\--ErinRua

A/N: ["At the time this story begins the Bounders, as they were called, had been greatly increased. There were many reports and complaints of strange persons and creatures prowling about the borders, or over them; the first sign that all was not quite as it should be, and always had been except in tales and legends of long ago."~ J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring: Prologue: Of the Ordering of the Shire.]

Thank you to Henneth Annun group members Nessime, MK, Dagmar Jung and fliewatuet for info on Bounders, and to the Henneth Annun hobbit-lovers for encouragement!  



	9. The Farmer's Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writers on the HA list were challenged to write stories about races they normally shun like the plague, in an effort to broaden horizons. Working off a shortlist and with a 1,000 word limit, authors posted their stories over a period of two weeks.

"Well, good night to you all," he had told the young travelers. "It's been a queer day, and no mistake."

_'So it had been,'_ he thought, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his ponies' hooves as they picked a cautious path along the causeway. The gentle sway of the wagon made the pale nimbi of his lanterns bob eerily above the strands of mist that crept up from the river. The chilling vapour washed across the roadway till it appeared the ponies must swim through it, their undulating croups barely visible above the murk.

_'Mrs. Maggot will be worriting all right, what with the night getting so thick...'_ He had said as much to young Mr. Merry and Mr. Frodo as he turned the wagon to head for home. Poor lass had been so frightened, yet she hadn't let on to their guests how hard it was for her to let him go out into the dark night, knowing that queer black fellow was still out there, somewhere.

_'Don't you go kidding yourself none, Will Maggot. You were plenty scared yourself.'_ Oh, he wouldn't deny it, but there was no way he would let on to his Ella just how frightened he had been, bad enough that the hair on his toes stood straight up when that funny customer had come sniffing around Bamfurlong, looking for Mr. Baggins.

That had made him angry too, it had, being made to feel that way. It didn't help none that he'd been taken aback when the stranger had come riding that big black horse of his right up to their doorstep, bold as could be. Farmer Maggot didn't take too kindly to strangers traipsing across his fields neither, and without so much as a by-your-leave! Told that fellow so too, not that it made much difference.

_'Still can't get over how Grip ran off like that, yelping like a bee-stung pup,'_ he mused, watching his team's powerful muscles ripple as they smoothly controlled the short descent from the causeway. The river-mists had succeeded in drowning the dike in their dampening waves. To any eyes that might be there to see, the farm wagon seemed to float atop the foggy banks; illuminated by the wavering lantern light, Farmer Maggot made a strangely spectral figure. The normally garrulous crickets had stilled their voices; the clip-clop of hooves was all that remained to punctuate the eerie silence.

_'Odd...that's how it was just a'fore he came.'_ He found himself looking over his shoulder, peering into the fog that rose ever higher behind him, like a great wave threatening to engulf the retreating wagon. It _had_ been uncommonly hot for a September day; the morning rains had only served to make the air sultry. Unearthly quiet it had been too, leastwise until the geese had started screaming. Of course the old gander, angered by any intrusion into his little kingdom, had always been apt to raise a ruckus when strangers came around, but this sound had been different.

The placid swish of the ponies' tails seemed at odds with his own taut nerves, and suddenly he started to laugh. The ponies' ears flicked back, surprised by the incongruity of the sound. _'You'd do well to give heed to the good beasts, instead of your own foolish fancies, Will Maggot!'_ He grinned sheepishly, recalling how shaken he'd been by the sight of the darkly cloaked apparition emerging from the mist on the Ferry lane. Hardy and Old Tom had stood by patiently, unperturbed by what turned out to be Mr. Merry, come searching for his tardy friends.

The last mile to his gate went by quickly, uneventfully. Farmer Maggot drove the team directly to the barn, grateful for their steady service that night. He'd not descended from the driving seat before the figures of his sons emerged from the house.

"Ma said you should go straight in - Nate and I will take care of the team." Milo took the reins from his father, who nodded his thanks.

"Be sure to give them a good rubdown; the lads have earned it." He paused at the ponies' heads to scratch Old Tom's forehead. _'Your namesake would know what to make of all this now, wouldn't he?'_ The pony, oblivious to the unspoken question, nosed about his master's pockets, hoping to find a sweeter reward. Laughing, Farmer Maggot fished about in his pockets to find the lumps of sugar he knew were still there. Hardy was given his share too before Nate and Milo led the pair into the barn, leaving Farmer Maggot alone in the dark farmyard.

He turned to see the welcoming light that streamed through the kitchen's windows. Mrs. Maggot was there, waiting for him, with a mug of sweet mulled wine to counter the chilling effect of the damp night air, and her bright smile to warm his heart.

He downed the heady brew, grateful for the warmth which coursed its way through his body. True to her word, Mrs. Maggot had his pipe filled, ready for his pleasure. He looked up into his wife's loving eyes as she handed the pipe to him; but to her surprise he stood, setting the filled pipe carefully aside before slipping his arm around her generous curves.

"Time enough for that...later..."

***  
 _~Nessime_


	10. The Farmer's Wife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writers on the HA list were challenged to write stories about races they normally shun like the plague, in an effort to broaden horizons. Working off a shortlist and with a 1,000 word limit, authors posted their stories over a period of two weeks.

The farmer's wife couldn't keep from smiling, a bit wistfully perhaps, as she listened to her husband recount the strange events of that afternoon to the three youngsters who sat by the wide hearth, sipping mugs of beer and listening with anxious faces to Farmer Maggot's tale.

Oh! he was relishing it now, she thought silently, but if the truth be known he would just as lief have foregone the experience - as would she. Near took the curl out of her hair, it had, seeing that great black horse lunging straight at her husband.

And it had promised to be such a pleasant evening...

***

The kitchen had been far too hot for a September afternoon and she had opened the door and all the windows in hopes that a cooling breeze would find its way off of the River. She sensed movement behind her and turned to see him enter, bearing a couple of baskets filled past capacity with fresh mushrooms.

"You'll be wanting some of those with your supper," he answered in response to her raised eyebrow. "We finished off the last batch at lunch." He smiled hopefully at her. It was all she could do to keep a straight face; he had just brought the last basketful to her that morning.

"You'll have your mushrooms, never fear."

He brushed a kiss on her rosy cheek as one hand strayed to caress another ample cheek.

"Go on, now!" Mock indignation vied with a girlish giggle as she shooed him away. "There'll be time enough for that later."

***

_Later..._ She shuddered to think how close they had come to not having a later to look forward to. Listening to him now it might seem that he had already forgotten the fright he had given her. But he caught her eye when he reached that part of the story, and the look said, _'Don't you worry none. I'll always be right here for you.'_

She gifted him with one of her beautiful smiles, then continued her preparations for supper. She didn't need to hear the words to know what he was proposing to their guests, and a quick calculation told her there would still be plenty for all. A quiet word to their daughters was all that was needed, and in a short while the generously laden table was surrounded by fourteen hungry hobbits.

Mrs. Maggot sighed with relief, seeing that she had figured correctly; though the bowls and platters were soon emptied and every plate all but licked clean, every diner appeared replete. Even the dogs were content, cracking bones and gnawing rinds before the wide fire-place.

She refilled their guests' mugs one last time while her husband and sons went out to the stable, lantern in hand, to hitch the ponies to the wagon. She waited until the soft creak of the wheels halted outside the kitchen door before stepping out into the darkness of the yard. Instinct more than sight led her to where her husband sat, high in the driving-seat.

"Give this to Mr. Baggins, with my compliments," she instructed, handing a large covered basket up to him. His low chuckle told her that he knew its contents.

"Looks as though you'll be needing me to harvest more mushrooms, Mrs. Maggot."

"Time enough for that tomorrow." She laid her hand on his knee as she looked up at him. "I'm very proud of you, Will Maggot, looking out for these youngsters and all." She didn't add what they both knew; that black fellow had scared him too.

His work roughened hand covered hers. The gentle touch gave a calm reassurance as they watched their guests emerge to throw their packs on board.

"I'll have your pipe filled for when you get home," she offered quietly, then stepped back into the light of the open door as Frodo, Pippin and Sam clambered into the wagon.

"You be careful of yourself, Maggot!" she called. "Don't go arguing with any foreigners, and come straight back!" No point in letting the youngsters know just how frightened this business had made her.

"I will!" Farmer Maggot's voice drifted back to her through the chill night air. Mrs. Maggot watched until the wagon disappeared into the gathering mist, the slow clop of the ponies' hooves gradually fading to silence. Only then did she enter the house, closing the door behind her.

It was going to be a long night...

***  
 _~Nessime_


	11. I Am A Dwarf--A Poem for Gimli

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writers on the HA list were challenged to write stories about races they normally shun like the plague, in an effort to broaden horizons. Working off a shortlist and with a 1,000 word limit, authors posted their stories over a period of two weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chathol-linn and Starlight gave me a huge amount of help with this - but all the remaining inabilities to scan are my own ;-)

__

I am a Dwarf; a child of stone -  
Persevering, patient, strong  
I carve the rock that is Earth's bone.  
I am a Dwarf; a child of stone,  
Stunted and strange, yet Aule's own -  
Added by him to Eru's Song.  
I am a Dwarf; a child of stone -  
Persevering, patient, strong.

 

I carve the deep, forgotten dark -  
And beauty flowers underground.  
With careful strokes I make my mark -  
I carve the deep, forgotten dark.  
Let mithril shine and crystals spark,  
Let Dwarven songs and hammers sound,  
I carve the deep forgotten dark  
And beauty flowers underground.

***

By Avon

 

 

Author's notes: Chathol-linn and Starlight gave me a huge amount of help with this - but all the remaining inabilities to scan are my own ;-)  
Feedback welcome in [Avon's Discussion](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confid=6&forumid=229) or by e-mail


	12. One Dark Day in Lugbúrz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writers on the HA list were challenged to write stories about races they normally shun like the plague, in an effort to broaden horizons. Working off a shortlist and with a 1,000 word limit, authors posted their stories over a period of two weeks.

Grishnákh cringed at the sound of the door's hinges as they rolled open at last, but stood his ground as best he could, though all he wanted to do was sneer and growl. And he would have, had not the  
black-robed man who came out fixed his smoldering eyes on him.

"So, you are the one who caught him?" And, beside Sauron's lieutenant a figure shook like a rat that's fixed for dinner. Grishnákh's breathing became faster. So, that's why they had called him back! What did the wretched creature have to do with anything? Was it... was it important to the lord?

"I did, sir Mouth," he hissed, but one of the man's dark looks were enough to make his speech gentler. "We found him by the plain. The vermin muttered and talked nonsense, and quailed and struggled, but we managed to bring him, thinking that the lord might make use of him- "

"Hush." He raised his palm and behind the dark hood, Grishnákh saw eyes that wanted to pierce him with their fire. "Speak not of what you do not understand. Don't meddle in the business of your betters, and things will be fine for you."

Hot blood rose from his feet to his head, but he only clenched a fist  
behind his back. "Yes, sir; the Eye knows best."

"He knows best," the lieutenant said, calmly, but did not send Grishnákh away. Instead, he began to walk along the rampart, dragging the maggot beside him with many a gollum out of his throat, and Grishnákh could do no more than follow and try not to shudder because of the cold wind. The sky was deep grey, almost black, just as they liked it in Lugbúrz, but the cold was somehow... uncanny. He looked around to see whether any Nazgul were nearby –it was always cold when the Nazgul walked by- but just then Sauron's Mouth turned back and spoke to him.

"The lord has been wondering about your... deed. To capture this  
prisoner must have been no easy task." There was a queerness about the speech that Grishnákh didn't like. Was the Mouth testing him? Why? When he had felt hot inside with rage, he now felt cold with fear. Why was the lord suddenly interested in him? He thought about his answer; now was not the time to spoil things. No, he wouldn't let the opportunity pass him by, not even were all the Mouths and Lieutenants between him and the Eye. He would find out why the prisoner was important to the lord.

"It wasn't. He's sneaky and cunning, but there's nothing that us Orcs  
of the Eye cannot do when the master commands."

"The master, you say?" and the voice came out in a low murmur. "If he is your master, you will tell me now what you've heard from this fool!" He tossed the maggot against the railings, sending him into a fit of whines and sobs. Grishnákh jerked back, but his eyes fixed on Mouth were, under the hood, the two flickers of eyes still shone, and he hesitated. If he played his cards right, he would learn more about the creature's strange words and riddles, but he had to be careful.

"Yon cursed creature didn't stop the sobs and cries and was drivin' us mad," he began, and saw Mouth lean forward. He swallowed hard, "He kept muttering `bout a dark cave and a baggins, and I said `What's a baggins?' and he said, `A thief! He stole it, gollum.' And went on whining and growling. He wanted it back."

"What did he want back?"

"He wouldn't say," Grishnákh replied very quietly, waiting.

"He wouldn't, would he? That's his way. But, I am assured that you found out more, didn't you? The lord would be pleased to hear."

But, somehow Grishnákh knew that the lord would not be pleased.

"The gollum talked `bout seeking for the master."

"I knew you had heard those words before. What else?"

Grishnákh opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it, and had to cough to cover the slip. He could not appear to know as much as he did, and still he needed to find out more without the heads noticing. But, in the meantime he had to appease the Mouth. "He said he'd show him; he said he'd learn."

"Who would?"

"I- I suppose it was the baggins."

"Why?"

"Because he was a thief, or so the gollum said."

"What did he steal?" The man's voice was dangerously threatening. Grishnákh stepped back a pace and felt his jowl tremble, but he would not give up now, not before he knew.

"Something very... precious."

"Precious?"

"He wouldn't say more."

The man tossed the gollum against him and cried, "You are to keep this fool out of the way. Leave it some place and... and let it wander."

"Let it wander?"

"Now!" And that was the end of the argument. Mouth strode away leaving him with the pathetic wretch, still crying and quailing.

"Why would they want to set you lose after all the pains they took with you, little one? What is it you seek? What is it you carried?" And it had to have been very small if he had it and the baggins had stolen it and nobody had noticed. What was a baggins, anyway? He kicked the gollum and it gave a step. He kicked it again and it gave another one. "What does the lord want?"

"He wants... my precious!" and then the gollum began to wail and would say no more.

"The precious, ah?" Grishnákh hissed. So, the precious was important, after all. What kind of thing was it? A weapon? A secret weapon, no doubt. But, it had upset the Mouth, it had interested the Eye, and now he was closer to finding out what it was. All he had to do was wait for his chance. And, wait he would.

***  
-Starlight


	13. Strange Bedfellows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writers on the HA list were challenged to write stories about races they normally shun like the plague, in an effort to broaden horizons. Working off a shortlist and with a 1,000 word limit, authors posted their stories over a period of two weeks.

A/N: After Amon Hen...  
  
***  
"We're moving too slowly."

Uglúk shot a contemptuous glare at Grishnákh as the leader of the uruks of the Eye joined him in his surveillance of the night. The moon was a sliver, shedding but little light, and that quite enough for orcs. But even so, he needed it not—the land lay like iron, hard and unyielding, and stone jutted from it, piling high into rocky hills that dropped down onto the plains where lived the cursed Horseboys. Then it was over the plains to Isengard, if they could reach it. _When we reach it,_ Uglúk thought determinedly, as he turned slowly towards the thorn in his side.

He was not best pleased to have a lot of weak pups nipping at his heels, but there was no denying that numbers would help them should it come to a fight with the enemy. _And there's always a need of fodder for the carrion fires, eh?_ Thus, however incredulous he'd been to chance upon a rabble of northerners tracking _his_ prey, he'd been willing enough to hold with them for a time. Pathetic and stunted as they were, they were easily cowed and they could also track, which meant less work for Uglúk and his lads. But then they'd come upon Grishnákh and his Lugbúrz lads, and that time, Uglúk hadn't had a choice. Smaller they might be, but they were armed and ordered, and Grishnáhk had enough swords at his back that he'd have given Uglúk a fight that would've left the Uruk-hai of Isengard unacceptably weakened. So, much though it stuck in his craw, he'd allowed Grishnákh to join them, wondering the while what exactly it was about this one band of brigands that it could drag so many hunters after it. _And there's that 'no spoiling' order, as well..._ Uglúk considered curiosity a fatally bad habit (and he made certain it was fatal in others) but he could not help but wonder.

Nevertheless, at the moment, he felt not a lick of it as he answered Grishnákh's charge, throttling the impulse to shove a knife down the other's gullet to silence him. "We'd have moved the quicker if your lads had stopped their wretched frolicking in the woods," he snarled in a low voice. "This is not a pleasure jaunt—keep your swords in their sheaths and save 'em for flesh. There's naught to be gained hewing wood."

"My lads were simply keeping pace with yours," Grishnákh retorted. "Run a little faster next time. And since we speak of running, let's settle this course. No need to deal with the maggots of the north." Uglúk grunted, for once in agreement, though had he his druthers, Grishnákh would be counted among the maggots. Grishnákh knew it, and seemed to take a special delight in playing up his own authority, treating Uglúk as if he were simply another captain among orcs, refusing to acknowledge the obvious fact that Uglúk would beat him in any fight. _I will gut you for this and every other insult one day, worm,_ Uglúk promised silently, as Grishnákh continued, "My orders are to return with the prisoners to the river. The Great Eye knows its friends, and if you're wise, you'll make yourself one of them."

"And my orders are to bring the prisoners to Isengard. Let Saruman make himself your master's friend, I've naught to do with that."

"Then you're a fool," Grishnákh hissed softly.

"Foolish is thinking yourself higher than you are, swine," Uglúk retorted. "If Lugbúrz wanted an ambassador, they'd not pick you. You're naught but the errand runner, my fine fellow."

"Oh? And I suppose you're better than that?"

"I know my place," Uglúk retorted. "The fighting Uruk-hai belong on the battlefield; we do not make alliances, we do not make treaties. We kill, and I lead them in that. Saruman sent us out to capture the Halflings, and that we've done. That's an end to it."

"Indeed?" Grishnákh sneered. "How very... unimaginative."

"There's worse faults. Like meddling in things not your business," Uglúk hissed. "Now, in case you'd forgot: we took the Halflings, and my lads're watching them. And they're watching you and the maggots as well. Try anything, and we'll leave you gutted on the doorstep of the Horse Marshal, as a gift. A little farewell present, eh? Don't presume to give me orders, Grishnákh. We're going to Isengard, and you can come with us to safety or else leave. It's of no consequence to me. I—"

Just then, there came the sound of cursing, a stream of complaints from one of the northerners, and Grishnákh smirked. "Well, I wonder what that was about? _Saruman-glob búbhosh skai_? Perhaps you understand them better?"

"Shut it!" Uglúk snapped, feeling his claws bite into his hands as they curled into fists.

"You are the captain, are you not? If so, I suggest you control the maggots better. Or perhaps you would prefer us to do so? In any case, best we see to the lads," Grishnákh suggested, jerking his head at their encamped and unhappy followers. Clearly, an argument was brewing and Uglúk bit back on a curse as Grishnákh—without his permission—turned and walked away, skirting the edges of the Lugbúrz company as he made his way towards the source of trouble—the Halflings. But he was not going to leave Grishnákh with the victory tonight, no. And so he, too, began making his way towards the Halflings and the rising quarrel, and as he did so, a hideous smile curved his lips. _For where there's an argument, there's blood to be spilled. Control the maggots, eh? I think I shall! But watch you, Grishnákh, for your turn will come. Oh, it shall come!_ With that pleasant thought in mind, Uglúk went forth to his night's work.

***  
\--Dwimordene

Orcish: "The Uruk-hai," TTT, 59.


	14. Uncover the Past, Discover the Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writers on the HA list were challenged to write stories about races they normally shun like the plague, in an effort to broaden horizons. Working off a shortlist and with a 1,000 word limit, authors posted their stories over a period of two weeks.

The Dwarf grunted, glared toward the merry group behind him, scratched his chin and moved himself, along with the book and instruments over his lap, toward a place where trees did not get in the way of the starlight so that he could properly go on with his job.

He grabbed a small knife that looked foreign in his huge hands, but he was a Dwarf and knew his way with tools, and this one had been working rather well though it was elven-made and not dwarven as he would’ve preferred. Pressing a hand against the open book to keep it steady, he worked with the knife over a stain, scraping until he got only brownish dust and was able to see traces of old words beneath the smear that covered nearly all of the page.

The Dwarf grunted. There was another page that had successfully been uncovered. “My luck must be changing,” he muttered to himself. “The last page crumbled to pieces ere I had chance to begin my work,” and he paused, running trembling fingers over the surface of his new treasure: a book. Who would’ve thought that he’d walk in and out of the home of his forefathers, bringing out a book and not gold or mithril? But this book was just then more valuable than all the treasures of Moria; it contained the tale of his kinsmen and their latest thoughts, those same thoughts that were now below his fingertips, scribbled so hastily that he feared they would rush out of the page any moment. Did he dare read on?

’Take it back to Dáin,’ Gandalf had said. Gimli bowed his head, closing his eyes. “I suppose Gandalf had hopes of my returning to the mountain. But, it may be too long before I set foot in the halls of my people, and I cannot wait to read what dark secrets Khazad-Dum has been keeping from us all these years.” He went back a few pages and his stare fixed upon the number _three_ at the top. He glanced back again to see that all seven of his companions still sat while Aragorn told them stories and Legolas sang for them. If he wanted to read –and grieve- in peace, now was the time. Heaving a deep sigh, he began.

_We drove out orcs from the great gate and guard room. We slew many in the bright sun in the dale. Flói was killed by an arrow. He slew the great chieftain and won us passage to clear the entrance, but a new host reached him. So rests forever Flói under grass near Mirror mere._

A noise startled him and he looked back, but it was only master Peregrin who had dropped his mug. His face turned to the book once more.

_Some speak already of turning back. An expedition of ten set out to bring signs and quell the whispering. They faced a group of orcs guarding the twentieth hall, but returned victorious. We have taken the twentyfirst hall of North end to dwell in. There is a shaft of light and the air is wholesome; hope has been rekindled. Balin has set up his seat in the Chamber of Mazarbul. With so many of our chiefs gone, leadership will be questioned-_

“Your mood is dark today, master Dwarf.”

Gimli jumped in his seat and turned to find Legolas standing at a distance of two paces from him.

“Not dark but sober, and I wonder why you would intrude on me like this without so much as a warning.” It was all Gimli could do to answer without having the Elf notice his blurry eyes. Legolas, however, seemed unruffled and offering him the mug he carried sat right next to him, totally oblivious of the scowls and threats he gave him under his beard.

“I provided you with countless warnings of my presence, but it seems not in your nature to heed or notice them,” and the slight twitching of his lips told Gimli he was jesting.

“I suppose you will want to know what it is I’ve been reading,” he said, rolling his eyes and folding his arms over his chest, but Legolas did not even turn to look. “You don’t want to know? Why, then, have you come?”

“I know, or guess what you have there, for you’ve kept it zealously since we found it. It is your right to feel what you will feel, but I hope you shall not grieve too much upon things you cannot change. Will you not take heart under the eaves of fair Lothlórien?”

“It might be easy for you to give such advice, who have not suffered the loss of your kinsmen.”

Legolas looked suddenly grave. “Those of us who are doomed to fade suffer loss every day, that of friend and brother not the less.” Their eyes clashed for a moment and Gimli found it hard to endure the glance. Never had he thought of the Elves’ hardships and now realized that there was more to them than he ever believed. His heart was filled with a new-found respect.

“It is well, master Elf,” he said at length, hoping that would do for an apology. “I shall not grieve if you don’t, but now I would like to-”

“Yes, you would like to get back to your book.” Legolas rose and was walking away when he suddenly turned, “Will you, then, walk with me around the city- tomorrow? It would be good for your understanding of my world, since I now have seen a bit of yours.”

Gimli was taken aback. “That- that would be good.”

“Good. I do hope that your skill proves better than your tongue and you find what you seek there.”

He growled but Legolas laughed as he walked away. Covering his mouth, perhaps to restrain a chuckle, Gimli returned to his book, there to travel through the depths of Moria, the ancient kingdom of his people.

***

\- Starlight

vibosc@cantv.net

  



	15. The Faithful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writers on the HA list were challenged to write stories about races they normally shun like the plague, in an effort to broaden horizons. Working off a shortlist and with a 1,000 word limit, authors posted their stories over a period of two weeks.

Mablung sat on the long bench that was reserved for those whose injuries were not severe and waited anxiously as the healers worked on his captain. Faramir had received an ugly wound to his thigh but it had been patched well and had not shown signs of infection. Now, in the Houses of Healing of Minas Tirith, under the tender care of its skilled staff, his lieutenant was confident it would not be a further concern. He watched diligently as the healer lifted his captain's leg to remove the old bandage and touched the injury with fine boned, white fingers.

With a start, Mablung realized he recognized those fingers, the soft white skin of her arms, the fall of neatly plaited brown hair; it was his own wife, Indil.

It had been two years since he had laid eyes upon her, but they had been busy ones - hiding in the wilds of Ithilien, fighting the curse of the Dark Lord and he had not often thought of how she had fared. He had left her mistress of his house and fortune and had hoped it would be enough to keep her contented. Apparently it had not been. She had been a healer of some skill when they met and it did not surprise him that her generous and practical nature would not allow her to sit idly behind the protection of his family's walls.

She looked up then and her roving eyes caught sight of his battle-scarred face. Her mouth opened slightly as she stared at him, her hand gripping the swathing she had been using with reflexive clutches. There was need in her eyes, a longing and desire that burned into his. Mablung looked away, his cheeks burning. Despite years of abandonment and the cruel way he had parted from her, she had not forsaken him. Her look said so as clearly as if she had spoken of it aloud. Despite his unforgivable actions, his wife still wanted him to return to her.

Resentment and the rage he had mercifully almost forgotten returned, fueled as much by his frustration as his own shame. How could she bear to look at him?! How could she still want him after all that they had gone through? He kept his eyes downcast lest she see the bitterness that filled them. It would have been so much easier if she had strayed - if she had found comfort in another - but Mablung knew her well, and even when his own heart betrayed him, he knew hers never would. Marriage was for a lifetime - her people believed that even more strongly than did his own - but that covenant did not allow for the strains that time and warfare could put on a man's body.

She had been so kind about his failings. *Sometimes it happens,* she would say, kissing his forehead and trying not to let her disappointment show, but what he could not have admitted then and was loathe to admit now, even to himself, was that 'sometimes' had become all the times. In the end, even the sight of her naked form in the dim light of dawn could not stir his cursed body to respond. Whether it was malady, injury or simply a case of falling out of love with her, Mablung did not know, he only knew that each time she had approached him with tender, forgiving hands and warmth and willingness in her eyes, his rage at his impotence had grown. Even now it consumed him and smothered any of the love he might have once felt for her.

Mablung looked up to see that her longing gaze was still fixed on him, but there was no longer any hint of hopeful desire in it. They had been married long, raised two fine and promising sons, and had learned to read each other's thoughts in the subtlest nuance of a glance. Sorrow filled her eyes now, sorrow and defeat. She knew that his heart had not changed despite the time and distance. A lesser woman would have wept openly at his rejection, but Indil was no lesser woman. Mablung had never known anyone as strong as she, save perhaps his captain. She would not weep, nor let her grief be known to any save him. She had always kept such things inside herself. She had borne her children in silence and blood, to the astonishment of the midwives who attended her and it was with the same silence she had buried them after Captain Boromir's company had returned from battle with their quiescent forms laid among the dead. She had always been so and that made Mablung's shame burn even more heavily into his heart.

His eyes dropped to his captain who was chatting amicably with the other healer attending him and Mablung's rage mellowed. How could he tell his faithful wife that his love was now given to another? Could she ever understand the bonds that could be forged by the heat of battle? Could she comprehend that what drew him to his captain was something far more noble than the desires of the flesh? He loved Faramir beyond life and it was that love that had filled and sustained him through his estrangement. His love for Faramir was one that allowed him to feel proud of himself again, to feel useful and needed, to feel as if he were once again a whole being. He felt a surge of love fill his heart and wash away the remaining anger. He was his captain's man and no other's - for Faramir loved him also - and would never ask for anything that Mablung could no longer give.

Mablung saw Indil's hands begin to move again, her fingers touching Faramir's injury with a surety and tenderness that would have fooled anyone less familiar with her moods. Mablung sighed and frowned, feeling the guilt creep back into his heart. He had found his place and a love to fill his soul, but what of the one he had pledged that soul to? He looked again at her neat and handsome features, her fair skin, still flawless after so many years, her petite and still comely form. She deserved a love as great as the one he had found in his captain, but where in all of Middle Earth would she ever find it?

***

\--Ariel


	16. About Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writers on the HA list were challenged to write stories about races they normally shun like the plague, in an effort to broaden horizons. Working off a shortlist and with a 1,000 word limit, authors posted their stories over a period of two weeks.

Now, we don't hold much with Men, except in Bree where they live in each other's pockets, as they say. But as everyone knows, Hobbits are also fond of good company and good meals, and apt to feel sorry for those who don't have them.

Everyone knew there were Troubles away down south, and if they didn't want to know the details, they could still be persuaded to slip a bun or two to a hungry Man who spoke fair. At least some of 'em could.

And truth be told, most of the poor wretches who crossed Sarn Ford and found themselves at the Bounds were grateful enough and might do a strong day's work in return for a good meal, and then make their way further on, looking for a bit of land away from Trouble.

And some of the Men _were_ Trouble.

No one really saw at first how much trouble.

I went for Shirriff as a way to see folks and stretch my legs and find good inns. You couldn't say I was lollygagging if I was doing my job, and that job happened to mean strolling about and drinking ale. At least I hoped you couldn't say that. And nice as it is to hear a bit of news, it's duty for a shirriff, I'd say.

It was a good life I had, and I counted myself lucky.

But the Men… a few bad 'uns prowled around in the winter, winter of 1419 that was. They were turned back by the Bounders, rare shots with a bow some of 'em were. But those Beating the Bounds worried, said just shooting an arrow past Outsiders wasn't enough any more, the arrow had to really hit them to drive them off. No one much liked that.

It took a while to understand how different these Men were.

Some of em came to build things for Lotho, and no one paid them much mind- knew they were rough-spoken of course, and we'd be glad to see their backs, but that's as far it went.

Til some of 'em didn't leave.

They built a big shed, and I tell you lots of folks hereabout puzzled what Lotho would want a thing like _that_ for; but then we saw the Men were living there.

It was too late by then. 'Always harder to get the weed out once it's taken root,' the gaffer said over a pint, and I had to agree. And they had taken root in a big way. They didn't act like workmen no more, but like they owned the Shire. And they were rough about it, I tell you.

Taking what they wanted - there was plenty for them - with no thought of what folks needed to live. Hard enough it was to have no smoke and no beer, and lots of us grumbled. But when it came to them gathering up all the food and giving us only the leavings… well you've got to feed your child something! We took what was left because we had to eat, but hobbitlings grew thin and parents grew worried.

Many of us wished we were Tooks then, at least they could keep the ruffians off. But we couldn't, not here in the Shire. And it fair broke my heart that I had any part of this as a Shirriff. After what happened to Folco Chubb when he told the Chief he quit, I wasn't going to do the same. Not and leave your mother alone. It was scariest for the womenfolk after all, them big Men had none of their own women here, and they weren't beyond such a thing. Take anything that wasn't theirs; we all saw that.

It was a bad time, I tell you. Maybe the worst was that there were a few hobbits as did spy-work for the Men, so that a body didn't know who to trust. Not that most Shire-folk would do such a thing, but you never knew who did.Some extra taters or a brace of coneys as reward made some do as they shouldn't have, but if a Dad sees the little ones hungry - well it's hard to stay right when your children are crying about empty bellies. I felt that too when I looked at you in your cradle. A bad time.

It was the Travellers coming back as saved us. It could've been a lot worse before it got better - why, the stories from Bree'd freeze your heart to hear 'em. They _killed_ some Bree-folk, Big and Little alike! Who knows what it would've come to here; the Battle was bad enough. Least we didn't lose anyone else but Lotho Pimple, and good riddance I say.

But the Travellers. Everyone knows the Tale now, of course, but that day they rode up we didn't expect anything good to come of it. Thought they'd toss em right in the Lockholes. A treat it was, to see Hobbits stand up like that. Made us all a bit braver, it did. When the rebellion started the shirriffs were told off to go stop it, but I walked over and I just couldn't stop grinning, I was so glad to see something starting. Took off my feather right away, and even stomped it into the ground a time or two.

It was hard for a bit to get used the idea. Not that they were gone; we were too busy eating our fill and tasting good ale again not to see that. It's the other part we had to get used to.

Don't know as I believe it all, but the Travellers say there's a King way down south, and that he's our King too. First lots of folks didn't like that, thinking we were trading one set of ruffians for another. Then he put out a proclamation that no Man could set foot in the Shire. Not even the King himself!

Guess it'll be alright with that kind of a Man as King.

***  
\--Lyllyn


	17. The Scent of Steel and Leather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writers on the HA list were challenged to write stories about races they normally shun like the plague, in an effort to broaden horizons. Working off a shortlist and with a 1,000 word limit, authors posted their stories over a period of two weeks.

She saw him arrive in the grey dawn, mist of morning clinging to him like a shroud, his dark hair a shadow and his eyes soft, weary, apprehensive. Two of her kin were with him; she supposed they had found him and brought him here, this Man from the South, for none knew where Imladris lay, and beside them he seemed heavy and earthbound, a bear lumbering after falcons.

From Aragorn she learned of the Council's decision, and that night she walked soft beneath trees, alone and thoughtful.

"Ah, Lúthien," she murmured at last, "who all say lives again in me..." and wrapping arms around herself she felt bone beneath flesh, more comfort than all her thoughts had been. "You escaped your prison in the tall beech trees to go to your Beren at his need, and can I not escape the gentle prison of my father's house? Will I feel his peril in my heart, and forsake all to go to him? And will you go with me, Lúthien?"

Closing her eyes she tilted her head back, and opened them again to the stars.

She lay in the gentle sunlight, and Elrohir twined flowers in her hair. She had been singing for him until a lark had joined her, and then she had stopped, and closed her eyes, to listen to his tune rising into the morning.

Elrohir's voice was like water when he spoke, and said, "I know you love him, my sister, but must you forsake all for him?"

She smiled, and answered, "It is not certain I shall have the choice, for did our father not refuse him my hand 'till he reunites the kingdoms of Men?"

Elrohir chuckled, and plucked another blossom. "Do you doubt he will do it?"

"I know not," she said, "though I believe he is the only one who can."

"And you, a queen in Gondor, a queen of Men. Arwen, our Evenstar," he said, and she sighed into the pain in his voice, "forever among these mortals, and we forever apart."

She turned her evening eyes to him, and shook her head. "Do not grieve for what has not yet come to us," she said gently. "Do not grieve our parting when we are here, now," and she smiled, "and you are braiding flowers in my hair, and I am singing songs for you."

The rain was jewels on her hair and gown as she found the shelter of a small pavilion, and there she saw the Steward's son facing east under the eaves. Her footsteps were soft and she spoke as she approached, saying, "Greetings to you on this wet day," and he turned to her. "I hope I do not disturb you."

"No, lady," he replied, bowing slightly, and after a breath of hesitation he said, "I am Boromir of Gondor."

"I know," she said, coming to stand beside him. "I saw you arrive, and asked my father who you were, for it has been long since Men came to Imladris." He smelled of leather and steel, pungent beside the soft fragrance of the rain, but she found it not unpleasant. He smelled of Men, as Estel did, and as, she knew, the world of Men undoubtedly did. She tasted the thought, turning it over on her tongue, and she breathed in deeply, and wondered what it would be like to live always with that scent of steel and leather.

"You are the lady Arwen, then," he said, turning to her and bowing again. "I have not thanked you for the hospitality of your house."

Smiling, she said, "No thanks are needed, Boromir of Gondor. You journeyed many days, alone and on foot; we are glad to give you comfort."

He chuckled, nodding. "Many days indeed, and somewhat worse for wear."

Yet there was tension in his humour, and Arwen said gently, "You feel confined, here, I think."

He hesitated, and replied, "Forgive me, lady. I am grateful to you and your family, and this place is," and he cast about as though searching for the words, finally merely saying, "beautiful. But I do feel restless. The decision has been made; I would have us act. Time grows short."

"It is a trait of Men I do not understand," she said thoughtfully. "This desire always to be going, always to be doing." She turned to him and he met her eyes, and seemed held there by the question she did not voice. Perplexity was written across his features as he struggled to find an answer, and she was struck suddenly by the realization of how fine those features were, though so different.

Finally he looked back out at the rain that fell in heavy sheets, turning the day the color of his eyes. "Perhaps it is our mortality," he said at last. "We are but a moment compared to you, and must live our whole life in a scant handful of years. Anything we do, we must do in that short time."

The gift of the One to Men, so short a life. "And what would you do, Boromir?" she asked, her voice gentle.

He was quiet for a time, then at last he murmured, almost to himself, "I would see my home again."

When, so many months later, Aragorn told her of Boromir's death, he was surprised that she wept. He held her, and when she could find her voice she said, "I knew him but little; I know not why I weep."

But in her heart, she saw the rain, and the grey eyes that had looked towards this his home with such love; and beside her and within her she saw the fulfillment of a world's hope, this fleeting life of Men that would stay in the world and keep the world, even as they lost it.

She kissed him gently. "I weep for leather and steel," she said, "and for the grey rain, and for the white stones of this city which will never see him more. I weep for the joy of sharing this with you," her murmured words scarcely loud enough for him to hear, sun through shadow, "and for the joy of this fleeting mortal life, and for the peace I have found here, in the home of one who will not come again."

Turning midnight eyes to his of silver and rain, she said, "The sorrow and the joy of it, love. I weep for the sorrow and the joy."

***  
\--shadow975  



	18. Mothering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writers on the HA list were challenged to write stories about races they normally shun like the plague, in an effort to broaden horizons. Working off a shortlist and with a 1,000 word limit, authors posted their stories over a period of two weeks.

  
by Forodwaith

 

 

Rose had reached the thinnest edge of her endurance, for Elanor was teething and kept up a constant thin, piercing grizzle.

She'd put her to the breast; Elanor bit her so sharply Rose yelped. She'd given her a dummy to suck on, a clean rag dipped in cold water, but Elanor only spat it out and cried harder. She'd rubbed clove oil on Elanor's gums; Elanor clamped down on her mother's finger and wouldn't release it without a struggle.

Rose felt tears springing in her own eyes. She'd have run to her mother-in-law for help, but Bell was away in Frogmorton; Rosie's mother was full busy cooking for the harvesters working the Cotton farm this week, and Sam was in the Green Hill Country checking on the reforesting work there. So Rosie was left in Bag End alone, save for Mr. Frodo, with a fretful babe and a week's worth of baking to do with one hand.

"Oh, Elanorelle, oh babe, hush, hush," Rosie begged, holding the little one to her chest and rocking back and forth. "Please, hush."

Elanor only wailed so hard the rolls of flesh under her chin wobbled.

Frodo set down his pen and listened. Wherever was that horrid noise coming from?

His own rooms lay at the far end of Bag End's long central hall from the front door, the kitchen, and Sam and Rosie's room. They'd wanted him closer (to keep an eye on him, no doubt), but he'd been adamant, feeling that the least he could give them was a modicum of privacy. This way, too, any visitors had to pass Sam's scrutiny, which Frodo was selfish enough to be grateful for.

It sounded like crying; it must be Elanor. She was generally a quiet baby, but every once in a while she did let fly. Frodo bent to his writing again.

Ten minutes later, when the wailing had only gained in volume, he slammed the book shut and went to find out whatever was wrong with the child.

The noise was loudest outside the kitchen doorway, so Frodo peered inside. Elanor was in her basket by the window, crying and red-faced with fury, while Rose grimly kneaded bread dough as though she were trying to throttle it.

"What's amiss, Rose?" he called, half-shouting to make himself heard.

"She's teething, Mr. Frodo, and I'm that sorry, but I've tried everything I know and there's nothing'll soothe her. I must just get this dough set to rise, then I'll take her for a walk so we'll be out of your way."

Frodo crossed over to the basket and peered in. "Here now, Miss Gamgee, what's all the fuss about?" Startled, or intrigued by the new face, Elanor stopped sobbing. Hiccupping softly, she stared at him with wet blue eyes. Frodo gathered her up gingerly, and held her out at arm's length. Still silent, Elanor shoved her fist in her mouth and fixed an intense stare on him.

Rosie slammed the dough on the table, collapsed into a chair, and dropped her head in her hands. "Rose, Rose! Please don't cry," Frodo pleaded. With Elanor balanced awkwardly on one hip, he patted Rose's shoulder.

"Sorry, Mr. Frodo," Rose choked out, scrubbing her face with her hands. "It's just frustrating, that's all. Sam can charm her without even trying, but I seemingly don't have the knack of it."

"Ah, Rosie-lass, don't be jealous." Frodo stroked her curls gently. "When she's older you know that Elanor will turn to you for the things only another woman can tell her. And she's lucky to have two such loving parents."

Rose sobbed harder. "I know, I know, but that don't make it any easier when there's chores to be done and Sam's away and my ma with her own hands full..."

"No need to worry, Rosie." Frodo straightened up, still holding the baby. "Where's Elanor's blanket? I'll wrap her up and we'll go for a walk, the two of us, until you've had a chance to get the bread in the oven. Shall we go visit your grandmother Gamgee, Elanor?" he addressed her.

A snuffling laugh escaped Rose. "Bell's away in Frogmorton, to be with May while her babe's born."

"Perhaps we'll just stroll around the Water, then, though I was looking forward to some of Bell's seedcakes," Frodo said ruefully.

"I'll make seedcakes for you, never fear; it's the least I can do. But are you sure about this, Mr. Frodo? I know you've got work to do, writing and all. And what if she cries?"

"I didn't spend the first twenty years of my life in Brandy Hall without learning how to look after a hobbitchild, my dear. Don't worry - Elanor and I shall be fine."

Rose kissed Elanor's still-flushed cheeks and smoothed the golden fuzz on her head. "Look after Mr. Frodo, sweeting. And bless you," she added with a glance at Frodo.

As he left the house, with Elanor settled in the crook of one arm, he could hear Rose's high, sweet voice beginning to sing in time to the thump of dough on the table. Frodo set off down the Hill towards the Bywater Road. "There's much to show you, little starflower, and not much time, I'm afraid. Today let us visit the most beautiful river in all of the Shire..."

* * * * * * *

Note:  
This story is set in mid-late August, 1421 S.R., when Elanor is approximately 5 months old (a little young to be teething, but not unknown).

"Grizzle" is a Britishism meaning "cry or whine". I've heard it used for babies before, but if any UKers out there think this usage is incorrect, I'm willing to be persuaded. Just drop me a line.


	19. The Masthead Watch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writers on the HA list were challenged to write stories about races they normally shun like the plague, in an effort to broaden horizons. Working off a shortlist and with a 1,000 word limit, authors posted their stories over a period of two weeks.

It is my turn for the masthead watch this evening. Not that we have had sight of any other vessel since leaving Mithlond. It is rare to find ships this far North, and few would dare assail one of Lord Círdan's vessels. Nevertheless, the watches are set.

I sit astride a spar, and gaze out over the Sea. The waters are black at night, like the sky above. Looking up, I can see Eärendil traversing the heavens. The stars are bright out here, brighter even than they were in the Havens.

Swinging up to a standing position, I climb a little higher, and look Westwards. There is a wager amongst the crew that we shall not see land for at least a month; whoever is first to catch sight of Tol Eresseä will win a gem, a gift from Círdan. So although I do not expect to see the golden shores of the Isle, I look.

I would dearly love to be the one to win the gem. For the honour, and for the chance, maybe, to trade it for a ship of my own. But I do not know how trade works in the Blessed Realm. I think many of us are somewhat nervous, though we would never admit it, that we will find it difficult to settle in the West. We have never known any other home but Middle-earth, never known another life. My parents escaped the wrack of Sirion, where many lost their lives; and after went with the Lord Círdan's household to Mithlond.

And there I was born, and there grew up, a mariner like my father. He and my mother sailed a week before us, but I sought and was awarded a place in Círdan's crew. We knew not who our passengers would be, but the ship - ah, the ship! Such a vessel has not been seen in Mithlond for many a long year. Her timbers are white and her prow graceful, and she slips through the water silently, smoothly. We prepared her, providing her with food and water for a long voyage; coiling new ropes of stout _hithlain_ ; and raising the creamy sails on the masts. When she was ready, all Mithlond came to see her, and we who had won places in the crew were envied.

It was towards the end of _iavas_ that the first passenger arrived, on a magnificent stallion. His robes and hair were white, and a light was in his eyes. Círdan hurried to greet him, and soon 'twas murmured throughout that Mithrandir had returned. Yet the last time he had been to the Havens, he was old and grey. We knew not what had befallen him, and he would say little, save that he was sailing with us.

Only days later, the rest came, and we bowed low. All my days I had heard rumour of these, and we knew that Círdan took counsel with them. One, Lord Elrond of Imladris, some in Mithlond knew when he was but a child. His name has long had honour amongst us seafarers, for his sire was Eärendil and his brother Elros, two of the greatest mariners ever seen. But he is a child no longer, and wisdom is in his eyes. My father said that he bears a striking likeness to Eärendil himself.

And with Lord Elrond came the Lady Galadriel, one of the few who is returning Westwards rather than sailing for the first time. Of her, tales have been told - she is indeed one of the great of the Firstborn, and to look upon her is to see the might of our Noldor kindred. Some of our people mutter darkly about the Noldor, remembering Sirion; but Galadriel was not at Sirion, and all that I have seen of her since we set sail tells me that the tales spoke true.

The strangest passengers are two small beings - halflings, from the land of the Shire. By rights, we in Mithlond should know these creatures, but they are apparently content to stay within their lands. The haflings are small, but courteous. They eat far more than their size would indicate - or the older one does. The younger merely nibbles, though his appetite has increased since we left land. Both of them speak tolerable Sindarin, and I have heard that the elder even writes it.

To begin with we wondered that mortals could sail, but soon the full tale came out. The younger Halfling, Frodo, bore the One Ring of the Enemy to Mordor, where it was destroyed; his uncle Bilbo was the finder of the Ring. We had heard rumours of these deeds, but none of us imagined that such a little people would be the bane of Sauron.

By listening to the talk as we go about our duties, we have heard the rest of the news. Middle-earth is now the dominion of Men, Isildur's Heir having taken the throne of Gondor once more. And he has wedded Lord Elrond's daughter, who will now never come to the Havens. I marvel that she could sacrifice this for a mere Man, and indeed her choice has been the subject of much discussion by night as we lie in our hammocks.

I have been clinging to the mast for a long time, lost in my thoughts, and I slip back down and settle myself astride the spar once more. A lantern swings just below me, sending a circle of silver light out into the night. Someone on deck is singing, a soft song of love for Arda, and I add my own melody to the music and the sound of the waves. I could not ask for anything else at this time than to be sailing West with a fair wind on a clear night, and so I settle down to enjoy the rest of my watch.

***

_iavas_ : Sindarin for winter (thanks to Celandine and her Calendars resource article at HASA!)

By Eledhwen.


	20. Cubicles of Valinor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writers on the HA list were challenged to write stories about races they normally shun like the plague, in an effort to broaden horizons. Working off a shortlist and with a 1,000 word limit, authors posted their stories over a period of two weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

See Shunt's entry [here.](http://gryphonsmith.com/fileg/shunt/maiabert.html)  



	21. In Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writers on the HA list were challenged to write stories about races they normally shun like the plague, in an effort to broaden horizons. Working off a shortlist and with a 1,000 word limit, authors posted their stories over a period of two weeks.

Mine will be a lonely end. But then, I suppose all ends are. How did I come to this? I had such high hopes of restoring Khazad-dûm to its old glory. Now I see that I was like a child reaching to touch the bright metal on the anvil. For my pride I have led my people into danger and ruin.

***

We began with such high hopes. Erebor was well and good, once Smaug was dead, and Dáin a good king, but I was not the only one who aspired to more. The Dwarrowdelf is the natural home for the folk of Dúrin, and my forefathers are from his line – I felt I had not only the right, but the obligation to retake it from the foul Orcs infesting it.

I should have known. I should have guessed, from the tales. It was not merely Orcs who dwelt here. Khazad-dûm exists no longer – now it truly is the Black Pit of Moria. The thing that drove us from here two millennia ago still dwells in its heart. I am certain of that. The Orcs fear it, but serve it.

Seeing the waters of Kheled-zâram – should I have taken it as an omen, that the stars reflected only dimly as we came up through Nanduhirion and climbed the Dimrill Stair to enter what was ours?

***

Some among Men believe that Dwarves are as stone. Would that it were so! For stone cannot die. But it can crumble, as I crumble now. How ignoble an end, to be slain by an Orc-arrow. Many arrows. Five days it has been, I will last a little longer.

***

We restored some of the chambers and halls. At least we did that. I have never seen such craftsmanship as in the pillars of the Great Hall of Dúrin. Curse the Orcs who will only befoul them again. Unless we receive aid. Dáin has not responded and I begin to think that Borin did not reach him with the message.

Our greatest achievement, though, was to find a lode of _mithril_. None believed it possible. All the veins were thought to be too deep to be accessible, the way barred by our enemies below. But we did, and rediscovered the secrets of its forging. I had rarely seen it before, except in the mail-shirt that Thorin gave to that rascal Bilbo.

***

I wonder what my friend has been doing? Smoking his pipe in his garden, I suppose. The queerest burglar to ever be hired by a Dwarf or thirteen, he was. Dear Bilbo. Those waistcoats of his were so absurd.

***

Mahal made us as we are, and not otherwise. Even an Elf would have trouble healing from these wounds. I cannot love the Elves, but they are tireless and their ability to recover from injury is remarkable. Flighty creatures, though.

***

I wish I had still the strength to make my own monument. That is the way it should be. No, all it should say is “BALIN FUNDINUL UZBAD KHAZADDÚMU.” Balin, son of Fundin, lord of Moria. None may ever see it, unless something comes to pass that I do not foresee. My people cannot get out. We are trapped on all sides. Óin is keeping a journal of the colony, but who will read it? We will vanish and our fate be never known.

***

The halls of my fathers call to me. Perhaps I shall see there Dúrin himself, and have to admit my failure. I tried. I tried…

*******

**Author’s note:**  
Balin, musing and muttering on his deathbed, as I hope was clear enough. I always felt rather sorry that the Dwarf who was most friendly with Bilbo was the one who went off to Moria and died there.

Celandine Brandybuck  
celandine at wellinghall dot net


	22. Childhood Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writers on the HA list were challenged to write stories about races they normally shun like the plague, in an effort to broaden horizons. Working off a shortlist and with a 1,000 word limit, authors posted their stories over a period of two weeks.

Eldarion, King of Arnor and Gondor, sat at his window, quill poised, ink drying on the nib, eyes focussed somewhere out on the Pelennor.

"My Lord," said Beleg, despairing at last of getting the King to attend to tallies of merchanters and the subtle intrigues of Umbar, "If I importune, please forgive me."

Eldarion looked on him then, and the grey gaze, half lit with ancient stars, narrowed on his face. There were times when the King's grace sharply reminded Beleg of Queen Arwen. Her son had inherited her nobility, of a surety, but also her strangeness. Beautiful. Disturbingly so.

"Today my great-grandfather was mistaken for my son," said Eldarion meditatively. An observation that seemed to require only listening silence. "I thought it amusing at first. He did too. But now...now I am not so sure."

Beleg had no need to picture the scene, he had been there in the forefront of a crowd come to watch young Prince Elenion depart for Imladris, where he would be tutored even as Eldarion had been, and his father Elessar, and all the heirs of Isildur before him.

Beleg had breathed in the awe of seeing the fair folk on their pale, clean limbed horses, their faces full of light and their eyes as ancient as the city. The unchanging tradition of fosterage had rooted Gondor in a world enduring since before the rise of the Sun, and that was comforting. Yet it did not take away the deeply unnerving thought that the King's great-grandfather, who stood in the centre of the melee with his hand on Elenion's shoulder, was not even remotely human, and was answerable for his deeds and his thoughts to no one in the realm.

"It made me wonder if I was right to send my son away."

"My Lord?" said Beleg, sympathetically.

"It is a wonderful place," Eldarion's eyes grew distant again, "Rivendell." He picked the circlet from his sable hair - now flecked with grey. "And a place of great bliss and learning for a child. My father, certes, grew to manhood there."

"A testament, my lord, to the tutelage of your mother's kin."

"As you say," Eldarion looked surprised to be interrupted, a man awoken from a pleasant dream. "I remember the sound of rushing water, mingled with song. Scents of sap and woodsmoke. Laughter and the flight of swallows. A good place...a fine place to be a child. I would have Elenion know, once in his life, such bliss."

"But then, sire, what troubles thee?"

Eldarion put the circlet on the table and rose to lean on the window sill. A westerly breeze lifted his hair but stirred not the heavy drape of his robes. "Childhood ends," he said, grimly. "When I am dead and dust in my tomb my great grandfather will not seem a day older.. Will he still be shaping the minds of Gondor's kings? Shall my son's sons each be children in his care? And will that not then make *him*, in essence, King, unending, while lesser kingdoms change and grow, and Gondor alone remains unwithered, unfruitful, like some elven rose?"

Closing his eyes a moment, the King rested his brow against the smooth stone, at once all human, the eerie light of his gaze quenched. "I remember," Beleg said quietly, "Belecthor, my father, telling me how you returned from Imladris like an elf prince. How you had to be taught again what it was to be a Man."

"Aye," said Eldarion, and grimaced, "And that I do not relish teaching  
Elenion, painful as it was." He sighed, and Beleg took a pace forward, instinctive comfort thwarted by the great distance there was between them. He could not touch the shoulders so wound with tension beneath the livery of Nimloth.

*Even our heraldry we have from them,* he thought, surprised by sudden resentment. *Yes, it is high time the Followers followed no more - the Second Born proclaimed that they were fully grown.* "You are right, my lord, childhood must end," he said, "And Gondor's heirs should know Gondor, not Gondolin. Shall I send messages requesting that Elenion return within the month?"

"Yes," said Eldarion heavily, and then "No...Oh!" and he sat, putting his head in his hands. A shocking thing to see, even in private.

"My Lord," said Beleg, "This is a wise decision and a right one. I do not understand your distress."

Eldarion looked up, and his eyes were mithril hued in the shadow of his unbound hair, and in his face was the alien sweetness of the Eldar, with something of their unassuageable grief. "Do you not?" he said quietly, "Yet he is still the only grandfather I have, though he be of different kind from me. And he has already lost so much."

Then, sighing, the King took up his circlet again and placed it upon his head. "Eldarion I am called," he said, "'Son of the elves', yet behold, I make my mother's choice, not for myself, but for my whole realm. Henceforth Gondor shall be fully a kingdom of Men, mortal and changeable as other men are."

He smiled a thin smile of pain. "I begin to understand now, a little of  
what it was for her to die."

 

 

***--Marnie


End file.
